


Chain of Command

by melissima



Category: The Unit
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melissima/pseuds/melissima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You almost lost a target."</p><p>"Almost won't get me court martialed," Mack said, and he watched Jonas' gaze promise consequences much more personal than court martial. His heart beat faster, even in the midst of an operation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chain of Command

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storiesfortravellers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/gifts).



"You almost lost a target."

"Almost won't get me court martialed," Mack said, and he watched Jonas' gaze promise consequences much more personal than court martial. His heart beat faster, even in the midst of an operation. 

It had been quite a while since they took one of their "strategic meetings" over a long weekend at the cabin. Molly and Tiffy's ideas about their weekends away involved three days' growth of beard, buckets of drowned worms, maybe a porn flick or two. The reality is both so much less and so much more.

He was surprised Jonas was even planning on reasserting dominance — not that he was complaining — since he hadn't really disobeyed. Jonas was bound by orders to prioritize the chip over Gael's safety, sure, but that's what he had Mack for. Sometimes a good second had to take things into his own hands: things that needed doing, that the chain of command could absorb because they were good and right over and above the stricture of orders. Jonas had taught him this, depended on him to execute it.

This whole weekend, he was sure, was partly just a formality because Jonas knew how much the chain of command meant to him, and partly R&R after one too many unpleasant, uncomfortable, ambiguous missions.

He whistled around his still-unfamiliar bachelor's quarters, packing up his tackle box, a couple rods and reels. It wasn't entirely for show, they'd get some fishing in on Saturday once he'd satisfied Top that all was in order between them. A wave of anticipation swept through Mack at the thought - not just for the quiet day they'd spend on the lake after, but for the all-encompassing pleasure of being the center of Jonas' attention for a couple of days.

***

Just as he'd thought, Jonas was all smiles when he rolled up, jocular and full of enthusiasm. Mack didn't look around at all before he pulled the door shut on his dreary little apartment. He did steal a look over at Jonas though, still whistling. Under his breath, he drawled, "S'a good thing I'm such a handfull, or we'd have no excuse to get out of this place for the weekend."

Jonas laughed heartily, but he didn't look like his heart was in it. The mission flashed before Mack's eyes in a fleet series of high-contrast images — the chip, the goons, Gael's attempt at escape, the warehouse, the shots he fired, the firefight, the eventual impromptu surgery to recover the chip once again. He couldn't think of a thing that should make Jonas unhappy.

He got himself and his gear into Jonas' car doubletime.

***

Jonas didn't speak in the car, so Mack didn't either. 

When they pulled up to the cabin, Jonas pinned him with a sharp look and left him sitting useless in the passenger seat while he carried in Mack's gear and his own. He remembered this from their first weekend here — Jonas had refused to trust him with even the simplest task at first. Shame prickled under his skin as he squirmed against the leather interior, waiting for Jonas to come give him permission to come inside.

When Jonas came for him, he was carrying a hank of jute rope. Mack unfolded himself from the car, but Jonas manhandled him around and crowded him against it, winding the rope securely from elbows to wrists, causing Mack's shoulders to protest. Jonas led him backwards to the cabin by the length of rope trailing from his hands, backwards up the walk, backwards up the three stairs onto the porch, and backwards through the front room of the cabin to stop in the very center, where Jonas would be able to see him from almost anywhere else. A heavy hand pressed him to his knees, and Mack felt the rope loosening, his hands placed at his sides, and the rope coming around them again — and also his ankles — before it was tied off again. Jonas, still without speaking, set about organizing their things.

***

Jonas had risen well before first light on Saturday and headed out fishing, pausing to rummage through Mack's tackle box and borrow a couple of his best lures. He hadn't spoken, just closed the box up again and left.

By the time the sun was really up and the beam coming in under the door had crawled almost close enough to warm him, Mack had been kneeling on the knotty pine floor for so long that he could have drawn a schematic of every tongue-and-groove plank, drawn every single knot in its place. He'd gone over the mission in the most granular detail his extensive training allowed, combing over his every action, Jonas' every expression. Nothing stood out to him as a problem; if Jonas expected him to know where he'd stepped out of line, he'd be in trouble.

The door opened and closed, bringing a breath of chilly air with it. Mack's arms and back rippled with goosebumps. His side gave a twinge that reminded him of a knife he'd once taken to the gut; he knew he'd be sore when he moved.

"Gorgeous out there, but nothing's biting." He didn't walk into Mack's line of sight, but his breezy conversation carried, mixed with sounds of dishes rattling and the sound and fragrance of bacon cooking. Mack's stomach gave a loud growl.

Finally he saw Jonas round the corner with his hands full — two plates, coffee cup, glass of juice. He walked right past Mack's spot on the floor, to the little dinette and sat down to eat. Mack's stomach growled again and his fists clenched at his sides.

"Patience, soldier. Man's gotta eat before he can go to work."

Mack blew a deep breath out his nose, relaxed his body into the kneeling posture. He knew he needed this as much as Jonas did, knew they'd have to cope with whatever he did and get the chain of command back in place before somebody got hurt, or worse. He'd seen who he was without Jonas's heavy hand on his shoulder, deep voice in his ear — he almost lost Tiffy and the girls, almost turned into someone he'd be ashamed of. 

Molly and Jonas had stepped in, laid down the law. But more than that, Jonas had explained to him what was going on in his head, where all the anger and resentment had come from - laid his family secrets bare in ways that made him wonder whether Jonas had been there, lurking in the sharp shadows of his childhood. Mack had finally understood what had been missing from his life, all those years of screaming matches with his mother, and then with Tiffy. It wasn't being heard that he wanted; it was being understood. 

But then, Jonas had brought him here to the cabin and taught him the value of the chain of command, the pleasure of letting someone else take charge for a while. He never had to explain himself to Jonas. Jonas knew what he wanted, what he needed, even when he didn't know himself. 

Jonas' dishes rattled again and Mack shook himself out of the reverie. Jonas stacked the plates and things, made his way back across the cabin. He whistled, busied himself with washing his dishes, then pulled stuff out of the fridge again, cracked more eggs. Before long the smell of bacon wafted to him once again. Moments later, Jonas knelt in front of him, holding a forkful of eggs and potatoes. Shame washed over Mack at the helplessness, but he opened his mouth in spite of the blush prickling over his skin.

"That's right," Jonas murmurred, bringing a napkin to mop up a drip of egg yolk that had run down his chin. "It is not your job to clean up my messes, Master Sargeant. Your job is to follow orders." It would be a long day, but eventually he would stop feeling ashamed to let Jonas take care of him.

***

The day drew on this way, Jonas doing everything for him, expecting him to wait there, silent and accepting. Finally, after lunch, Jonas decided it was time to untie him. He unwound the ropes with gentle hands, murmuring at him to keep still, to settle, to wait.

Mack waited as the light failed. He savored, coveted each breath as if he expected to be drowning any minute; he felt the rag rug under him, heard the now-familiar accoustics of the cabin. Logically he trusted Jonas, knew at least a dozen ways to mark time. But for some reason (the upheaval in his family, seeing Tiffy take the stage in the bar, that alone is more than enough to take your head out of the game, he hears Jonas-in-his-head say, half a wry smile coloring his voice) Mack's body grew more tense as the hours waned, wouldn't quite submit to the training. 

"Doesn't have to, at least not yet," Jonas-in-his-head said, "that's what we're doing here, after all."

As if he'd heard the imagined exchange, Jonas came close, but not quite close enough for Mack to touch. Heat rolled off his skin, fragrant with the grass and sunshine he's been walking in, a faint whiff of clean sweat. Mack breathed in deeply, feeling all the tension leave his unruly mind. His hands itch to reach for that heat, pull it closer, but he knew what was expected of him. His fingernails bit his palms, but he stayed still.

Warm hands reached for him like brands on his skin cooled by so many hours of stillness. Long strokes from shoulder to wrist, from hip to toes, brought him out of his reveries, back into his body, into the realm of sensations that passed and evaporated like fogged breath before him on a cold morning.

Jonas leaned into his work, massaging soreness out of Mack's limbs and back. 

Sweat pooled in the hollow of Mack's throat, ran from his temples to crawl across his scalp. His breath heaved as an entirely different tension pulled at him, stretched his spine and limbs as he motionlessly strained toward the pleasure that would arc through his body like lightning if he could just get those wicked hands where he wanted them. 

Jonas, his own breathing labored as he stroked and kneaded and squeezed at Mack's body, shifted position so that his bulk loomed over Mack in the dark, an invisible, weightless burden that made Mack strain even harder, pinned as he was by the order hissed into his ear: Don't. move.

Jonas praised him, warmed him with his body, teased him with the promise of more with the way his hands had lingered on Mack's chilled skin. But he was too desperate, too undisciplined; his torso jerked out of position and Jonas instantly withdrew, left him panting, berating himself. 

He could ask, but he won't. Probably. Unless Jonas shows signs of taking the bed again and leaving him out here in the — 

He heard Jonas warming up the shower. Damn.

***

Jonas showered, dressed for bed, checked all the doors and windows. Finally, he padded on bare feet over to Mack. That heavy, warm hand stroked down his back in lieu of goodnight. His weight shifted toward bed.

"Top. . . ." The blush crawled up his neck again right to the tips of his ears. "Can I?"

Jonas' smile glowed softly in the darkened cabin. "Come to bed, soldier. Plenty of work to do tomorrow."

Mack still didn't know what Jonas was thinking about their mission. He knew Sunday would be anything but easy. Still, his mind fell calm and quiet at last, as he sank into the warm softness at Jonas' side.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you storiesfortravelers for an excellent prompt and for the chance to explore this complex, rich relationship. Happy Yuletide!


End file.
